


missing pieces

by zemyr



Series: A Fleet Admiral's Witcher adventures [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M for 1 sentence, Foltest has been playing sex games with my boi Vernon, Gwent (The Witcher), M/M, Scar fondling, TLC with insults, The chaperon, This is our get-along hood, canon incest being mentioned, here there be sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 00:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemyr/pseuds/zemyr
Summary: A chaperon is a garment made by rolling up a liripipe hood and fashioning it into a hat. This makes the chaperon a highly versatile garment suitable for all seasons for the active, outdoors gentleman. It is made from tightly woven wool lined with the finest linen for a cooling effect for summer wear, in colder climates the chaperon can be unfolded into a warm, comfortable hood with a long tail, providing warmth and protection for yourself or your favourite, resident squirrel.





	1. The Pit

Movement. Or rather, lack thereof. Vernon Roche paused, stood still and held his breath until he saw it again, something that stood still while everything else swayed in the wind.

It was very, very close.

A few moments passed, and then the creature turned and bolted into the undergrowth like a startled deer. All the built up tension in Roche's body released at once, and then he was running through the bushes as well. He did not waste breath by yelling as he followed the fleeing elf, for it had to be an elf, Roche was very good at chasing and no human was that good at running, and as far as he could tell, the elf was alone. There were no shadows moving in the trees, no bows aimed at him, the questions piled up at the back of his mind, clamoring for attention while the rest of him focused on the chase, as single minded as a terrier in a barrel of rats.

Then the elf vanished with a yell. Roche blinked, tripped on a root and tried to grab some bushes but it was too late, and then he was falling, down into the darkness for what seemed forever before he crashed into the ground, then there was nothing but pain.

The ground under him groaned. Roche blinked and felt hands push at him, he tried to move and then his leg tried to kill him. He reached down as options raced through his adrenaline-drunk mind, imagining open breaks, thigh bone sticking out, or perhaps spikes. What his hand found was a tip of dull metal sticking through the top of his thigh, oddly decorated, pointy at the end but not sharp on the edges. No dagger. The sheath of a dagger. He was aware that it had not really registered yet, had not kicked in, so he made use of the little time he had before the pain really registered and checked where it had gone in and he was reasonably sure that any major arteries had been missed.

The ground pushed at him again, cursed at him in elder speech and only stopped when it noticed it was pinned to Roche's leg.

"Oh shit..."

Roche nodded in dumb agreement, his eyes watering as the elf twisted, pressed his hand to Roche's thigh, felt how deep the sheath went and then just pulled it out without warning.

That hurt.

He felt pressure, making everything worse and better at the same time, strong hands stopping the bleeding and as he looked up, he saw a green headscarf come off and reveal the empty eye-socket, the twisted scar, a mess of short, sweaty hair curling around pointy ears. Iorveth tied the fabric firmly around Roche's thigh, looked up at the sky far, far above and then down at Roche, his head tilted slightly to the side to compensate for the missing eye.

"What the fuck, Roche," Iorveth said, with feeling. "Is this one of yours?"

"No," Roche managed as he sat up, looking up at the pit they had fallen into. It had to be old, the planks on the ground were rotted through, and they had fallen onto a thick layer of dead leaves and soil, which was likely the only reason Iorveth seemed to be in one piece even if Roche had landed more or less on top of him.

"One of mine would have killed us," Roche said as he struggled to his feet, grunting as he tried to put his weight on his bad leg. It did not collapse under him, but he felt the blood drain from his face and hands. The pit was deep. Too deep, and too wide to climb, the sides were slick, clay and soil with no hand-holds, the roots sticking out were thin and frail and offered no help. He stepped backwards, leaned on the wall, and nodded at Iorveth.

"Come on," he said, patting his good knee. "Get up."

Iorveth stared at him, and Roche grit his teeth as he felt the shivering start.

"What?"

"Don't argue, I'll help you up," Roche said, waiving for Iorveth to come closer. "Come on, before I faint over here."

"You should-"

"No arguing," Roche said, watching as Iorveth's jaw clicked shut. He was already seeing black stars at the edge of his vision. "You got people up there, I don't, and I got a hole in my leg. We're not both dying down here, and we will if you don't do as I say."

As Iorveth stepped over to him, Roche was in too much pain to be surprised at the look the elf gave him. He could not read it anyway, but when Iorveth spoke, the sour snarl was gone from his voice.

"I'll come back," he said, and Roche stared at the eye-socket. He realized that shock had something to do with it, but he did not want that scar to show. Iorveth's headscarf, which was green, he could not understand why it was green and not red, so perhaps he was dreaming after all, it was tied around his thigh and keeping his blood from being on the ground. He needed something else.

Iorveth was puzzled but stood still as Roche pulled his chaperon off, watched the skull cap fall to the ground, but that one was not important. He unrolled the garment, pulled the wrinkled and sun-bleached hood over Iorveth's head, wrapped the long tail of it around his neck and patted the fabric flat over his chest.

There. That was better.

"I'll be back," Iorveth said, and Roche nodded at the lie. He reached down to steady Iorveth's foot, bit back a whimper as his leg cashed in every complaint it had hoarded up until now, held his ground as Iorveth stood on his shoulder and pushed the elf's foot up with both hands until he felt the weight ease off. There was some kicking, some soil fell down and then there was the sound of Iorveth hurrying away.

Roche let himself slump to the ground. The sharp pain distracted him from the deep, sick, throbbing one, so he did not mind it much as the need to sleep started closing in on him. He knew it was shock, the adrenaline had worn off and now his body realized it was leaking blood and blood had priorities, places to be, so he curled up on his side, closed his eyes, waited for death and passed out.


	2. Diplomatic gambling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwent has been one of the most popular card games on the continent for many centuries. Men and women of all ranks, ages and races meet on the road, in filthy inns or fancy diplomatic dinner parties, setting all troubles of the world aside as they wage war with cards depicting and quoting the most famous and infamous heroes, rebels and traitors in recent history.

When he woke up again, he was warm, dry, and resting on something soft. He tried not to move, just kept his eyes shut and tried to register his surroundings. The warmth and softness came from the furs he was curled up on, he was dry because his sweat soaked, damp clothes had been removed, and he was not alone.

He opened his eyes slightly, and looked straight into fabric. Iorveth sat beside him, so close that barely an inch separated his face from Iorveth's hip. Long, elven legs were stretched out on the edge of the raised bed, and he was apparently going through Roche's Gwent cards.

Iorveth ignored Roche as he tried to move, failed to move and only ended up groaning. He just kept looking at the cards in Roche's Northern Realms deck and proving himself nonthreatening where he sat, barefooted and in just a shirt, soft doeskin trousers, and, to Roche's surprise, the chaperon. He wore it as it was meant to, not as the hat that Roche had fashioned out of it, but as the liripipe hood it had originally been.

After a few minutes of gathering strength and will while watching Iorveth, Roche got up onto an elbow and looked around.

They were in some sort of odd hideout, up in an old tree. The bed was narrow, meant for one, and made out of wickerwork over layers of branches and dried leaves, covered with a thin straw mattress and furs on top. The roof and the walls were made out of wickerwork with dried grass tucked into it to keep any rain out, and a big hide functioned as a fourth wall, though it was pulled to the side now that the weather was good. There was barely any room to stand, and any storage space was currently a corner by the foot of the bed, and that was taken up by their armour. All in all it was safer, more comfortable and cleaner than any military camp.

"Good one of Ves," Iorveth said, stroking his thumb over the image. "Only woman I know of that can pull off a codpiece."

Roche huffed, and groaned. Iorveth glanced down at him, and then looked back to the deck.

"You look old in yours, though," Iorveth said, picking up one of the cards he had placed on his thigh. "But the quote is good. A real son of a bitch... did they know, when they made the cards?"

"Doubt they meant it literally," Roche mumbled, trying to breathe through the nausea. "Who knows. Who cares anymore. Where am I?" 

"In my hideout," Iorveth replied, turning a poor fucking infantry card over in his hand as if it would get any better upside down. "Not far from where we fell. Why did you chase me?"

"You ran away."

"What does that have to do with anything."

"The fuck, Iorveth," Roche managed as he pushed himself up into a near sitting position, shifting uncomfortably. His head was swimming and he was pretty sure that underneath the bitter, herbal taste in his mouth there was a fever and he had apparently had enough drink to put a quite significant pressure on his bladder. "We weren't called Foltest's hounds for nothing. Something runs away from us, we chase. Attack first, questions later."

"Need to go?" Iorveth asked, and when Roche nodded, he put the Gwent cards to the side and helped Roche onto his feet.

"Just do it over the edge, don't fall, though."

Roche nodded, grabbed a handy branch and limped two steps out of the hideout. That was as far as he got before there was a drop, and only now did he realise just how few clothes he had on. Apart from the shirt and the bandage, he was entirely naked.

If the situation was not already so absurd, he might have felt embarrassed, but for now he just pulled the shirt up, held it up by pinning it under his arm, grabbed his cock and let go. Meanwhile, he looked up to figure out where he was.

Iorveth had spoken the truth, they were not actually very far from the city borders. The hideout was situated high enough in the old tree that he could see where the main road would be, the river, and even if he could not see the pit they had been dropped into, he was pretty sure he knew the approximate location. The only mystery now was why Iorveth was living alone and seemed to have settled in, and why he had, apparently alone, somehow gotten Roche out of the pit, across a sizeable patch of woodland, and up into a tree. The how didn't matter much, elves were clever bastards, and this particular bastard probably had a few hundred years of opportunities to figure out the wonderful lifting capacity of pulley systems, but the why troubled him.

He dropped his shirt again to cover what little he had left of modesty, turned around and limped back into the hideout. Iorveth stood, and Roche wondered why he was not more freaked out by having Iorveth, of all people, grabbing him by the arms and helping him down onto the narrow bed, reaching down to get his bad leg comfortable before giving him a mug of something that smelled vaguely like burnt bark.

Roche drank it without asking what it was and settled back down as Iorveth sat beside him again, swinging his long legs back onto the bed beside Roche.  
"How bad is it?" he asked, indicating the bandages. He had to know and had no desire to look.

"It went through skin and some muscle, but since it was blunt force it dragged some cloth and crap into the wound as well," Iorveth said as he picked up the gwent cards again. "I opened it up and cleaned it out, but you still have a bit of a fever. It's not oozing pus, though, so you’ll be fine as long as you drink the tea."

"Never tasted anything like it."

"You wouldn't have," Iorveth said as he frowned at a card. "It's my mother's recipe. It fights the infection, not just the fever. Why do I have a card?"

"It's from the Scoia'tael deck, that’s why it’s green," Roche replied, and picked through the cards Iorveth had yet to look at. "I got... you, Toruviel, Milva... used to have Saskia's card as well, but Geralt won it from me."

"At least they got the quote right."

Roche nodded and watched as Iorveth found the rest of the green cards, looking through them one by one. He wondered why he felt fine being in Iorveth's hideout, with Iorveth having patched him up and having taken care of him for what seemed to be at least a full day. Last they had seen each other was when they met by chance in Velen, and all they had done then was trade some hesitant information about a plague that seemed to be taking a toll on soldiers and civilians alike. They had not met since, and Roche had more or less assumed Iorveth was dead.

He did not say it out loud, but it was good to see him. Iorveth was a ghost from the past, the one scoia'tael he never managed to catch or kill, never really tried to kill. Killing Iorveth would have not only ended the game, but smashed the board, taking one of the last few links Roche had to the past with him to a shallow grave. It was not like old times, had this been just a year ago, both of them would have suffered a quick death at each other's hands in the pit.

Iorveth eventually seemed to tire of the Gwent cards and put them on top of Roche's clothes, and then found himself some food, consisting of dried meat and wild carrots. He ate with his back to Roche, did not offer him any of it, but that was alright as Roche would have declined it anyway. What he did get was another mug of the cold, burnt bark smelling drink which settled his stomach and took the edge off the pain. 

Iorveth seemed to have spent his quota of conversing with dh’oine for the day, which was fine with Roche who was more tired and ill than he liked to admit, so he spent the rest of the day drinking bark-tea, napping and catching glimpses of Iorveth going through his things, reading his notebook and playing with his gwent decks. It was difficult to stay awake and difficult to sleep. 

As the sun set the cold crept in over the forest, and Roche got a look at the wound under the bandages as Iorveth took them off and peeled away what looked like slices of mushroom. There were two jagged wounds surrounded with black bruises, with a thin line connecting them where Iorveth had cut the wound open to clean it out. The line was stitched up neatly, and the entry and exit wounds looked red and swollen but nothing that should be causing too much alarm. Iorveth put a few new slices of white something on top of the jagged edges and wrapped everything back up again. All in all it was better work than Roche had ever seen in a field hospital.

"Thank you," he said, and then Iorveth finally looked at him. The elf looked tired, the empty eye socket looked darker and deeper than usual, and his right eye was ringed in blue as well.

"For old time's sake," Iorveth said, a small smile tugging at his scars.

Roche nodded and moved forward a little on the bed, leaving half of it unoccupied behind him. Iorveth watched him for a few moments, considering the invitation, before climbing very carefully over Roche and settling down behind him. 

He wondered for a moment just how lonely Iorveth was to allow all of this, and got his answer when the elf who was a self declared hater of all humanity and Roche's sworn enemy decided to press close to Roche's back, seconds later following up by wrapping an arm around his waist.

Roche managed to reach down and catch the edge of the blanket of furs and pull it over them, cocooning them both in a comfortable heat.

"Where are the others, Iorveth?" he asked.

"Elsewhere."

"And you?"

"I'm keeping them safe."

Roche frowned as he felt Iorveth's thumb stroke idly along his ribs.

"By... not being with them."

"Mhm. I inspire war. They need a break from that, and I needed a break from being so damned angry."

"Don't know about that," Roche mumbled after a while. "With all the help you’ve given me, it feels like you've switched to diplomacy."

He felt the smile against his shoulder, even through the shirt, and as he shifted to get the pressure off his thigh, he felt a different kind of pressure against his behind.

"Very diplomatic."

"It'll go away if you stop squirming," Iorveth replied, but he did not move away. Roche thought about that for a moment. He knew elves were rumoured to be less interested in sex than the average human, but he also knew it was just a rumour put out by humans who got turned down by elves. Iorveth had about as many centuries on his shoulders as Roche had decades, but still managed to get it up from a bit of hated human squirming. He did not move away, which meant it was not unwelcome.

"Didn't say I'd mind having a diplomatic erection pointed my way now and then, it’s a lot more interesting than those damned arrows," Roche said as he yawned, and felt Iorveth's thumb stop moving.

"Is that a proposition, Vernon Roche?" Iorveth asked, tightening his arm slightly around Roche's waist. "You as much of a whore for cock as your old mum?"

If it had been anyone else, Roche would be picking their teeth out of his fist by now, but coming from Iorveth the insult just didn't stick. Perhaps it was the fever, the pain, the sudden, unexpected safety and intimacy, but something felt too awfully good about the entire situation, and besides, Iorveth was not actually wrong.

"Might be," Roche said, pretending to think about it. "This entire day has been weird enough already. Besides, I'm already miserable and in pain."

"It wouldn't be painful," Iorveth whispered, placing his hand on Roche's hip and gods, that drawling voice sounded good when it was not being hateful or angry. "You truly wish for it?"

"Mhm."

Iorveth stayed still for a few moments, before he reached down to feel between Roche's legs. His hand found a very hard cock, and Roche clenched his muscles to make it shift in Iorveth's grip.

"Convinced yet?"

Iorveth did not answer. The hand on Roche's cock did not move for a while, just held him, and just as he was about to ask if Iorveth needed instructions or anything, he noticed how Iorveth's breath had changed. It was calm, slow, and he could feel the dead weight of Iorveth's arm over his side.

Roche listened to Iorveth sleep for a few moments, before he took Iorveth's hand from his cock and placed it on his stomach again. He wondered how tired an elf had to be to fall asleep like that and he found that he really did not mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like short paragraphs, fite me


	3. Polypore therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birch polypore is a common bracket fungus found on birch trees. In traditional medicine, the fungus has been used to kill whipworm parasites in humans, in tonics as a boost for the immune system, as an antiseptic for wound-treatment and the skin of the fungus was used as a microporus, anti-fungal and antiseptic plaster.

Roche was the first to wake up as the pale light of the sun spilled in among the treetops, chasing away the damp morning mist and waking the birds. He de-tangled himself from Iorveth's arm and struggled out from the warmth under the furs. His leg was throbbing, his head ached and the muscles were sore as hell as he got rid of last night's tea, went back to the bed and sat down again, pulling one of the furs around himself to stay warm and watched Iorveth curling up under the other, faking sleep.

Since he was faking sleep, Roche reached over and brushed Iorveth’s greasy hair out of his face. He smiled when Iorveth’s carefully controlled, slow breathing halted for a moment, so he turned away, doing a better job of faking ignorance than Iorveth did at pretending he was waking up. He left Iorveth to his theatrics and looked around for that tea he had been drinking ever since Iorveth dragged him up into the tree. There was an empty pot and a few full water skins balancing next to the cup that Roche had been drinking from yesterday, and as he opened them he found the one containing the bark-tea. He drank two cups full as he watched the sunrise, feeling how the dull pain eased off, leaving only the pinches of the stitching and the soreness.

Iorveth was taking his sweet time getting out from under the furs, but when he finally did he just grumbled a good morning and disappeared down the tree for a few minutes, leaving Roche to his thoughts.

He was surprised that there was not much thinking going on. His mind felt rather blank, strangely at ease, perhaps it was the tea. Perhaps it was because Temeria was starting to mend under the rule of Nilfgaard, perhaps it was because he was in all and every way free of debts. Foltest was dead, Radovid was dead, the Blue Stripes were no more, the Scoia'tael had retreated to lick their wounds and seemed to take to being ignored by Nilfgaard better than anyone could have hoped. He was a useless thing from the past, and as Iorveth climbed back up the tree, hood still in place, Roche realized that Iorveth probably felt the same.

Iorveth smelled vaguely of soap as he knelt in front of Roche and started working the bandages off, then peeled off the mushroom looking slices. They were stained with blood speckled pale, yellow gunk, but Iorveth did not look worried.

"What are those things?" Roche asked, watching as Iorveth opened a box where several more slices were wrapped up under a patch of green leaves.

"The... skin, one could say, on a fungi that grows on birch trees," Iorveth said as he placed two more slices onto the ragged cuts on Roche's skin. "It sucks up fluids and prevents infection, and keeps wounds from bleeding. The flesh is also an ingredient in the tea for the same reason."

"Those... big round things?"

Iorveth nodded.

"They kill trees."

"But not elves. Or humans, it seems."

Roche watched as Iorveth wrapped the bandages around his leg again before packing everything away and moving so he could sit on the narrow bed next to Roche. He pulled out a leather bag, and offered Roche what looked like oatmeal cookies.

They were crunchy on the outside, and soft on the inside. Roche ate three before his stomach protested. Iorveth stuck to the dried meat and wild carrots, then disappeared down the tree without a word. Roche did not mind. The tea was making him drowsy, and the sun felt good on his skin so he laid back down for a nap.   
It was well past midday when Iorveth returned with a couple of plucked and gutted pheasants and a bunch of scrubbed potatoes in a net. Roche watched as Iorveth packed the birds, the potatoes and some fresh thyme in a hide and tied it all up with juniper twigs, and sat up as Iorveth strung up a leather cauldron which he filled with water and more twigs.

“We’re in a tree,” Roche said, gaining himself an unimpressed glare from Iorveth. 

“Shut up and learn something, dh’oine,” Iorveth said as he stood, picking up some big leather pads before climbing down the tree. On the ground, Iorveth knelt in what looked like a perfectly ordinary patch of forest floor, brushed leaves away and removed soil until he got to some white hot stones in a bed of glowing red embers.

It was interesting to watch, elven field cooking was not something that had been considered important in Roche’s training. All he knew was that they rarely made campfires and rarely were found with cauldrons, but they had to cook their food to get any kind of nutrition out of their root and game based diets and this was apparently how they did it. 

Iorveth did notice his curiosity as he climbed back up the tree, carrying the warm rocks in the leather pads. He shifted to the side so Roche could see what he was doing when he put the white hot stones in the water, the water spat and hissed as they were submerged and soon enough the water bubbled happily. Iorveth replaced the first stones when the heat had been sucked out of them, then put the wrapped up potatoes and meat into the cauldron. 

Roche thought about things to ask as they waited for their dinner to finish itself. He did not need to ask questions about the cooking, it was all logical and smart, so he settled for offering to teach Iorveth something in return for learning how elves cooked food.

In the end, he ended up teaching Iorveth Gwent. Roche only had a proper deck from the Northern Realms so he let Iorveth use that, but was able to set up an almost legal one using the scraps he had from the Scoia'tael, Monster and Nilfgaard cards, and even if the mottled deck had no real strengths like a proper deck should have, nor a proper leader ability that fitted any strategies, he was able to beat Iorveth the first couple of rounds before the elf showed why he was the last commander of the squirrels still alive.

Roche bit back a grin as Iorveth brought back two close range spies, then slapped the entire monster-spy line down with a well aimed weather card, before going for the kill by resurrecting two ten points siege engines that Roche thought he had been rid of earlier with a scorch-card, and then doubling their value with Foltest's leadership ability.  
Roche looked at what he had left on his own hand. Even with the siege engine weather card, he would take down most of his own cards and still end up two points short in the best scenario. Still, he played out the round and lost spectacularly by forty one points.

"Well played," he said, and did definitely not feel his cheeks heat up at Iorveth's expression. The elf looked very pleased with himself and nodded to Roche before turning back to the food. He fished the package out with his knife, put it on a long strip of bark, cut the juniper twigs off with his knife and revealed the food inside. The meat had more or less fallen off the bones of the birds and the potatoes were somewhat overdone but neither of them cared as Roche managed to find the little salt and pepper tin in his own bag, sprinkling some of the precious spices over the food.

They ate in companionable silence in the warm afternoon air, and soon enough Roche's body saw to it that he had to climb down the tree somehow. Iorveth helped him down without a word and they kept a look-out for each other as they left a tangle of shrubs a little more fertile than they had been when they arrived. Roche looked back as Iorveth stepped over to him and just took his arm, placed it over his own shoulders and put his own arm around Roche's back.

"Now that you’re on the ground anyway… you could use a bath, and your shirt needs a wash," Iorveth explained as Roche refused to move in the wrong direction. "The river is just behind the trees over there."

Figuring Iorveth had not done all this work just to drown him in a river, Roche decided that he did indeed smell badly enough to warrant a proper cleaning. Besides, Iorveth was despite everything a soldier, and one who had, considering Roche's lack of any other garment than his shirt, seen everything and probably touched everything anyway.  
“Leg feels better,” Roche said as they walked carefully through the undergrowth. 

“Moving it helps, yes,” Iorveth agreed, holding a branch out of the way. “If it looks better by tomorrow then the danger of infection has passed. That’s when you want to start moving around more.”

Roche dodged the branch, he had sort of expected Iorveth to let go of it so it slapped into his face, but Iorveth just made sure he got down the gentle slope to the river safely, never letting him stumble. He wanted to comment on it, but Iorveth did not seem to be aware of what he was doing, and Roche did not have it in him to ruin the moment. 

The river was of the lazy variety, shifting just enough water to not be warm, but not enough to have any pull on a person wishing to cross it. Iorveth had picked out an area where the river had taken a wrong turn many years ago, leaving a sandy pool in its wake that was kept clear by the spring floods. Roche waded straight into it, shirt and all, only noticing how filthy he was when Iorveth had pointed it out and now he could not wish for more than to escape the smell of himself.

A piece of green soap on a length of string with a cork tied to it landed next to him in the water. Roche grabbed it before it floated away and sniffed it. It smelled of whatever Iorveth smelled of, and he tried not to think too much about that. He saw Iorveth sitting on a flat rock next to the water, keeping a vigilant eye open for any sort of incoming threats and not looking at Roche, so he pulled the shirt over his head and washed that one too, scrubbing out days of sweat and grime against the coarse sand until it smelled of nothing but wet wool with a hint of soap. He let the shirt float in the pool next to him, occasionally yanking it closer so it would not escape as he cleaned everywhere else as well, relishing in getting the sticky fever sweat off and feeling a lot better by the time he had scrubbed himself with soap and sand from head to toe until his skin was pink and his hands sore.

As he grabbed the shirt and limped ashore, he was met with a stark naked Iorveth coming the other way, already waist deep in water. The elf eyed him as if daring him to comment as he passed by, snatched the soap out of Roche's unresisting hands and then proceeded to dive into the water, leaving Roche in stunned silence.

"Keep an eye out," Iorveth said as he surfaced. "I have not seen any nekkers or drowners or humans nearby, but you never know."

Roche nodded and took a deep breath as he struggled out of the water and onto the rock Iorveth had been sitting on. He wrung out his shirt and put it back on, the wet fabric soothing his scrubbed skin. He noticed where Iorveth had left his blades and then he looked at Iorveth in the water, trying not to think about having been asked to look out for humans. Just a couple of days ago, he would have been on the top of the list of humans to look out for. A couple of days ago, he would have strangled Iorveth with his own damned soap-rope.

The impulse was just not there. He had left it behind in the pit, most likely, and with the hatred gone nothing but fascination remained. He watched as Iorveth washed his lanky, scarred body, he was thinner than he should be but Roche had noticed that lone elves often were. Despite Roche being able to count most of the bones down his spine, there was a strength in him as he rinsed the soap off his torso and Roche found he had to say something that was planned from his side or he would eventually blurt out something stupid.

“Wash your hair,” Roche said and hid a smile when Iorveth glanced at him, his head slightly tilted to the side. 

“What?”

“You ain’t got a bandana, you should wash your hair. I could waterproof my boots by rubbing them on your head.”

Iorveth narrowed his eye at him, reached up and made an expression of complete disgust with himself before ducking his head under water and going at it with the soap.   
That doubled the time spent washing in total. It took Iorveth four rounds with the soap to apparently be happy with the result, running his hand through his black hair as he stalked out of the water on unsteady legs. Roche did not look away, the elf knew he had been staring anyway, so he settled on handing Iorveth his underwear as he came close enough for Roche to get a good view of the goods that had been offered to him last night.

Roche looked up, raised an eyebrow, and Iorveth cleared his throat.

"The water was cold," Iorveth said as he put his clothes on.

"It really was," he agreed, letting Iorveth help him onto his feet. "But refreshing."

Iorveth looked at Roche, leaned down, sniffed audibly and nodded to himself. "At least you don’t smell so human anymore. Let's head back."


	4. A good fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Piece, noun  
1\. a portion of an object or of material, produced by cutting, tearing, or breaking the whole.  
2\. an item used in constructing something.  
3\. an item forming part of a set.
> 
> verb, 3rd person present: Pieces  
1\. assemble something from parts or pieces.  
slowly make sense of something from separate pieces of evidence.
> 
> Oxford English Dictionary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter skirts around a short story of trivialized non-con incestuous roleplaying and general abuse between messed up, unrelated adults in a relationship involving a very uneven powerbalance. Stop at "You really enjoy this" and skip to "Shut the fuck up" if this is a trigger.

Back up in the tree, Roche eased down on the bed, rested his head on his arm and tried not to make sounds as Iorveth sat between his legs to take the wet bandage off. The cut looked red and swollen, but Iorveth did not look worried as he pressed some kind of paste onto it and added more of the fungi-patches.

"It looks worse," Roche said quietly, but Iorveth shook his head.

"Natural reaction," he said. "This is very recent, remember. It will get better come morning."

"How come you know so much about healing?" Roche asked, holding a few of the patches in place as Iorveth got hold of a fresh roll of bandages.

"My mother was a healer," Iorveth replied as he wrapped the bandage securely around Roche's leg. "I apprenticed in the trade as well, then worked as one for many years while travelling. Healers are well received at any table, it was a good way to see the world."

"Makes sense," Roche said and stretched his legs out slightly, and since Iorveth did not move away he ended up trapped between them. "Your people kept bouncing back from things that would have killed most humans."

"We're a resilient race," Iorveth said to Roche's left knee as he stroked his fingertips over a scar there. It ran from his knee cap to the middle of his thigh, a straight line stitched up with rough sinew. Roche swallowed as Iorveth ran a warm hand ran up his thigh, brushing all the little hairs there the wrong way all the way up to his hip, before stroking them back into place on the way down. Iorveth looked at his hand and what he was doing with Roche’s thigh. "You're... awfully alright with all this."

"You got me out of the pit," Roche said quietly, watching Iorveth's good profile. "You didn't have to. You could have left, or gotten me out and left me to my fate. You've changed, Iorveth."

"So have you."

"Foltest died," Roche mumbled, closing his eyes as Iorveth's hand did another slow pass along his thigh. "Henselt hanged my men. Then everything got bigger... the Wild Hunt, saving Geralt's girl, Nilfgaard, and now Temeria is doing well. No more squirrels raiding the woods, no more witch hunts, no more purges, no debts to pay or promises to stay true for."

"Henselt hanged them all?"

Roche nodded and looked up at Iorveth again. The hurt was old and faded now, and he hoped it showed.

"I am sorry," Iorveth said.

"Truly?"

Iorveth wrinkled his nose and shrugged, making Roche smile.

"Not really," he admitted. "But I am sorry you lost them. I know you were close."

"We were," Roche agreed, closing his eyes as the hand drifted up and down his leg again. It was a nice feeling, slow and soothing.

"Do you remember last night?" Iorveth asked after a little while, and there was that curious change in his voice again, the one from the pit.

"When you fell asleep?"

Iorveth nodded, and as his hand stroked up, he shifted it to the side and ran it down the inside of Roche's thigh. Roche opened his eyes at that. Iorveth's hand remained where it was, his fingers brushing the soft skin.

"Did you mean it?" Iorveth asked.

"That I’d like to have you shove your cock in me?"

Iorveth just watched him intently, and now that he knew what to look for, he saw that Iorveth was breathing slowly, controlled, even as his heart-beat made his pulse jump at his throat. He looked like he was tensed up for an attack of some sort, but his movements were slow and gentle, nothing like the coiled tension of a squirrel about to string him up for a game of pin-the-arrow-on-the-dh'oine.

"I did," Roche said, spreading his legs slightly in invitation. "And as you said, perhaps that is one of the things me and my late mother had in common. Got to wonder why you want to, though, I’m.. well. Me. Human."

"I'm not sure," Iorveth admitted as he shifted onto his knees, using both hands to move Roche's shirt up to expose his stomach and a cock starting to show interest for where this was going. He watched as Iorveth leaned down, his hands splayed over Roche's rib-cage as he pressed a kiss onto a scar just below his sternum. He looked up, Iorveth's one green eye meeting Roche's dark brown. "The human part of it is… somewhat off-putting, but you are not. Perhaps because it is you.”

Iorveth ducked his head down again as Roche stroked a hand through his soft, dark hair, smoothing it down before running his thumb over a pointed ear.

"We are much the same, you and I," Iorveth continued as he reached down and wrapped a hand around Roche's cock in time to feel it fill out. "You know what they say about you. If each of your enemies paid you a silver coin, you could buy Temeria... and if you died, not even the undertaker would attend your funeral."

"You got very odd kinks," Roche said, though he felt himself smile. Iorveth was leaning into his hand now as Roche stroked his ear between his fingers.

"You almost eradicated my entire unit when you first got the job," Iorveth said, turning his head and pressing a kiss to Roche’s wrist. "I never had to be careful before you showed up. Perhaps it's respect. Perhaps it's because I'm hated, too, I don't know. I just want this."

Roche closed his eyes as Iorveth moved his hand, squeezing his length firmly from root to tip, pushing the foreskin up to thumb at it.

"I find it just as odd that you wish for me to fuck you," Iorveth said as he set a languid pace, splaying his hand over Roche's stomach to feel his muscles tense up. "Is it not... "

"Submissive?" Roche asked, feeling the pinch in his thigh as he tried to buck his hips up. Iorveth placed a hand on his hip and held him still. "Perhaps it is. I stopped caring years ago, as long as I want it, it’s good."

"Then what do you want now?" Iorveth asked, looking up as Roche let go of his ear.

"Got some kinda oil?"

Iorveth nodded and stood, adjusted himself in his trousers and started to go through a bag. He found a small bottle, opened it, and handed it to Roche who sniffed it.

"Olive oil?"

Iorveth nodded and Roche watched as Iorveth turned his back and started taking his clothes off again, starting with the hood. He took his time with the rest, seeming to struggle getting control over his fingers and remembering how buttons worked, so Roche put some oil on a couple of fingers and decided to get started on himself. 

It had been a while, and as well accustomed to sex as his arse was he liked the feeling of touching himself, feeling the muscles give way for the intrusion of slick fingers, the sensation making his mind clouded and intensely focused at the same time. He had two fingers knuckle-deep when Iorveth dropped the shirt off his shoulders, turning his good eye to look at Roche. Iorveth swallowed thickly, then his gaze moved down, following the line of Roche's arm and down between his legs. Roche pulled his good leg back a little further so Iorveth could see what he was up to. 

Roche dipped his fingers in and out of himself, and he felt his rim clench around his fingers with subdued laughter as Iorveth tried to get his pants off before his boots, cursed, sat down and yanked it all down in one go.

"Careful, mind the leg," Roche grunted as Iorveth crawled onto the bed again, kicking his trousers off and accidentally sending a shower of Gwent cards flying away, and Roche breathed a sigh in relief as Iorveth wrapped a hand around his bad leg, keeping it steady. He dumped a good amount of oil in his hand, got up on one elbow and reached down to Iorveth's cock, which had evidently recovered from the cold of the water. Iorveth tensed up when Roche stroked him a couple of times, coating the hard limb with just enough oil to know it would end up being an enjoyable experience for them both.

"Do you need more?" Iorveth asked as Roche eased himself back down onto the furs, then he felt inquisitive fingers push in between his cheeks. Iorveth licked his lips as he found the oil there, left behind by Roche’s self-indulgent preparations.

"No, just go slow and don't touch my cock," Roche said, spreading his legs a little further. "I'll adjust on the way."

"You're a braver man than I am," Iorveth said as he inched forward, stroking himself and watching Roche splayed out in front of him. "You are sure?"

Roche nodded and used his good leg to pull himself down and closer to Iorveth.

"Just let it slide in," he said as he felt Iorveth move forward, then he finally felt the blunt, wet tip. He dropped his head back, took a few deep breaths, and focused on relaxing muscles and angling his hips. There was a slight burn for just a moment, and then both he and Iorveth gasped as the crown of the head slipped in all the way.

"Good," Roche said and opened his eyes. Iorveth was staring at him, not at his body or where they were joined, but directly at him. His lips were parted and he was breathing as if he had run a mile, so after a few moments Roche took pity on him. He wiggled himself down on the furs, slowly, letting Iorveth's cock in inch by inch until their bodies were pressed together as tightly as they could be and Iorveth finally let loose a string of soft curses in elder speech.

"Can I move?" Iorveth whispered, and as he saw Roche nod, he pulled half way out and sank back in again, making both of them moan.

Iorveth set a slow, languid pace, probably trying not to come like a teenager getting his cock wet for the first time, but the pace suited Roche fine. It became even better when Iorveth gave into Roche’s arms trying to pull him down, he splayed his hands over Roche's shoulders, his hips rolled against Roche's body, guided by the praise spoken in the heated air between them. 

Roche could not have asked for more. Iorveth was taking his instructions without question or pause, and within a few moments it had turned the kind of fucking that switched his brain off, let him drift where time and worries had no room to be, the movement and fill stoking a thrumming heat in him that nothing else could replicate.

“You really enjoy this,” Iorveth said, sounding out of breath and utterly fascinated. “I never thought you would.”

“Why’re you surprised?” Roche asked as he reached up and ran his fingers over Iorveth’s lips. “Son of a bitch don’t come from nowhere. "

“Fuck, Roche… I knew you were a whore, you don’t have to talk like one,” Iorveth said as Roche wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling Iorveth down so he could whisper to him, touch the sensitive edges of Iorveth’s ears with his lips. 

“You sure you know my story?” Roche asked, his voice smooth as velvet as Iorveth shivered, slowed down even further, the slow glide letting Roche feel every inch of his cock as it moved inside him. “Just another drunken whore boy barely good enough for kicking around in the streets for coppers before Foltest caught me, collared me and got me properly trained. Hell, I might not be pedigree, but by the gods I took some quality cock.”

“I saw you,” Iorveth said, trying and failing to find hair long enough to grip on Roche’s head. “In the field. In the dark, you knelt for him in the mud. I could see him stroke his cock through his clothes as he watched you.”

“And he never had to ask, never had to give me a sign,” Roche said as he turned his head and grabbed Iorveth’s hair, pulling him up slightly so he could look at him. Iorveth stopped moving, just breathed, his fingertips digging into Roche’s chest. Iorveth had a rough idea of what he had put his cock into, but there was a perverse pleasure in seeing if Iorveth could take the truth as easily as Roche could take a pounding. “He just had to look at me and I’d know exactly what he wanted. I’d stay on my knees for hours waiting for my reward, be it a throat full of cock as he sat on his throne calling out his sister’s name, an entire night with him high as a kite and calling me brother, filling my arse with royal spunk over and over until it poured down my legs, or getting a lashing while bent over his desk if a mission was anything but perfectly executed, then getting fucked to within an inch of my life for ruining his paperwork. I’ve ruined so much paperwork because of you.”

Iorveth was breathing in little moans now and Roche grunted, pleased, feeling Iorveth fight the pull on his hair but Roche was not letting go. He grabbed Iorveth’s jaw and pushed his head back, exposing his neck. 

“We also played games, me and him,” Roche whispered, biting at Iorveth’s neck and clenching around the cock in his arse until the elf gasped. “I was to prepare myself, get on the bed with my clothes on and pretend to sleep through whatever he did to me, only to wake up when he put his cock in me and told me to be quiet in case daddy heard us. Could you have done that, Iorveth? Pretended to sleep with your king’s fingers milking your prostate and your king’s mouth sucking you dry?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Iorveth groaned and twisted out of his grip, grabbing Roche’s arms and holding them out of the way and for a second, Roche wondered if he had gone too far. Iorveth’s expression was unreadable, flushed and close to his release as he was, Roche could not tell if he was about to kiss or kill him.

The hands did not go for his throat when Iorveth moved, they pushed under him, one under his shoulders, the other under his hip, he felt Iorveth's hot breath on his collarbone as the elf pushed his face into Roche's neck and gods be damned, this was good too. A different kind of good, not the feeling of earning praise from his king or getting a thank you from Geralt, but something else that seemed to be entirely him and Iorveth. 

He pushed one hand into Iorveth's soft hair and managed to get the other between them so he could grab his own erection and give it a firm squeeze to get back into things and away from his thoughts. Iorveth whimpered softy when Roche tightened around him and rutted into him, which in turn made Roche gasp for air.

"Oh yes, like that," Roche whispered as Iorveth sped up, braced one foot against the floor to gain momentum as he bit into Roche's shirt and shoulder, not finding much to sink his teeth into but it seemed to be enough to muffle him anyway as he crashed abruptly, keeping still so Roche could feel Iorveth fill him with elven spunk. The idea of it was enough to set himself off, especially when Iorveth started moving again in slow, even thrusts, fucking his own cum into his sworn enemy even as his cock started softening, and as a soft, warm tongue lapped up the sweat at Roche's throat, he finally found his own release, streaks of slick come shooting over his fingers.

As Roche let himself relax, Iorveth slipped out and immediately got off the bed. Roche's brain was blissfully blank as he listened to Iorveth rummage about. As his breath calmed down, he forced his eyes open and watched as Iorveth cleaned himself with some length of bandages soaked in water, looking out of breath and distracted as he got to his feet and walked over to Roche.

If he had not been so thoroughly fucked, and if he had not also had a dislike for being covered in slowly crusting cum and oil he would have said something, but as it was he let Iorveth clean him up thoroughly. He watched as Iorveth checked under the bandages, there was some fresh bleeding but the stitches held, so he just pulled them back into place and looked somewhat distant and dazed as he sat on the edge of the bed for a while.

"Don't be stupid," Roche mumbled as Iorveth was about to reach for his clothes. "Come here."

Iorveth watched him for a few moments, then seemed to accept his fate. He crawled over Roche and squeezed himself into the narrow space available between the wickerwork wall and Roche's body, squirming around until he was half on top of Roche, half on the bed. Roche had pulled his shirt down, so having Iorveth's naked body pressed up to his own was fine. They slept and rested through the late evening until the stars were out, a pale full moon painting the forest in grey.

Roche stayed on his back, with Iorveth pressed up against his side, limbs splayed carefully in the confined space. Roche let Iorveth use his shoulder as a pillow, it kept his hand free so he could switch between stroking the pointy ear, combing through the soft, black hair and tracing the scars on his face with his fingertips. The scar had been badly infected at some point, it sank into the tissue and twisted the right side of Iorveth's face, not at all helped with a couple of teeth missing in his upper jaw, sinking the flesh in further. He could feel the edge in the bone where his cheekbone had been broken and not healed quite right, then found the soft eyebrow and the smooth plains of his nose a stark contrast against the evidence of violence. The empty eye socket was just that, an empty eye socket, covered with skin and a line of soft eyelashes deep within the hollow, tickling his exploring fingertips as he dipped them inside.

He tried not to react when he felt moisture there, but did when Iorveth reached for him. The kiss was a surprise, dry and hesitant but genuine as the cold really started settling in over them. Iorveth glowed in the moonlight, the shadows deep in the dark eye socket, the twisting scar down his face making him look like a monster in his own right.

“Iorveth…” 

Roche sighed softly as Iorveth licked at his mouth before trying again. He had not been kissed like that since Ves wanted to find out if he had a single straight bone in his body. This was the same yet nothing like it, where Ves had been soft curves and her touches as rough and hard as the world had made her, Iorveth was all hard, unforgiving angles and yet his touch was gentle, soothing, the kind Roche hadn't known could be shared between men formed by violence. It felt nothing like Foltest, nothing like the quick relations with named and nameless men in the dark, nothing like Geralt, despite his considerable skills as a lover. This was something else, the core of the reason Roche kept failing his task of exterminating the squirrels haunting Flotsam and even if he did not know what it was, not right now, it was something he was prepared to explore and treasure.

“What do you want, Iorveth?” he whispered, because there was a longing in the elf next to him, unmasked to the world now that his physical needs had been seen to. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know anymore,” Iorveth whispered, and there was a taste of salt on Iorveth’s lips now. 

"We could travel," Roche whispered in between kisses and the scratchy sound of Iorveth's calloused fingers on his stubble. "Figure it all out, away from this place. I could show you... Kaer Morhen. See the witchers, maybe..."

Iorveth nipped at his lower lip.

"Then... wherever," Roche said, pulling the furs over them like they were children telling secrets in the dark. "Maybe south. See Toussaint. Geralt."

"Dandelion?"

"Mhm. Wonderful shows, I hear."

"Why?"

"We're the nightmares from the past, you and I, everyone expects us to remain the same, stuck in the pits we started digging for ourselves all those years ago.”

He licked into Iorveth's mouth, up along the scar, before kissing the tears from his eye socket and then the corner of his right eye.

"We could be what we're not expected to be. At peace. Together, maybe, if you want to."

"Vernon?"

"Mh?"

Roche stroked his fingers over Iorveth's ear and felt Iorveth's arm wrap around him, clever elven fingers stroking along the short hair at the back of Roche's head, his thumb finding the silky soft hair behind his ear.

“Did you know… at some point, harpies stole my dream.”

Iorveth’s voice was a whisper now, and Roche shook his head just enough for Iorveth to feel it. Whatever Iorveth was going to say, it was going to be important.

“Geralt returned it to me in Vergen, a few days before Loc Muinne. It’s why I stopped, why we stood down afterwards, I had been without it for a while and when it came back it wasn’t tainted by decades of hate anymore, it was pure. My dream, my most powerful dream, it’s about peace. Peace and warmth and food and whatever this is.”

Roche swallowed past the lump in his throat as Iorveth reached down, took his hand and pressed it flat to his own chest, letting Roche feel how Iorveth’s heartbeat raced at the touch. 

“It’s the missing piece,” Iorveth whispered. “So yeah. I’ll come with you, wherever you go.”

They stayed like that for a while, Roche feeling Iorveth’s heartbeat beneath his hand, felt it slowing down as the words were out there now, spoken out loud, and they were not just the missing piece to Iorveth’s dream but the missing piece to Roche’s puzzle as well. He smiled and pressed a kiss to Iorveth’s brow. 

“When the fuck did you turn into such a hopeless romantic,” he mumbled and grunted when Iorveth punched him in the shoulder. He wrapped an arm around the snarling elf to stop the half-hearted violence and smiled as he felt Iorveth relax into the embrace. “I love you too, you pointy eared bastard.”

“Fuck you, Vernon Roche.”

“Anytime, Iorveth.”


End file.
